


Neal Doesn't Watch Because He's Asleep

by wordsbymeganmichael



Series: More New Information Neal Could Have Lived Without Learning About [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Anti-Neal, F/M, Neverland, Porn with Feelings, Smut, anti-Swanfire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-27 01:27:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18188021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsbymeganmichael/pseuds/wordsbymeganmichael
Summary: A direct follow-up to Neal Watches From the Dirt, but Neal's fallen asleep and Emma returns in kind what Killian gave her.





	Neal Doesn't Watch Because He's Asleep

**Author's Note:**

> a/n, part two: When I finished the last part and got to thinking about what could have happened after Neal rolled over and went to sleep, this idea absolutely ruined me to the point where it was the only thing I could think about, especially since not adding Emma’s internal voice has practically killed me. So, uh, here we go, alternatively titled “Emma Reciprocates,” because… that’s what she does.

“That’s it, my Swan,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against the sensitive skin of her stomach, gently kissing her again, his scruff soft against the skin it is rubbing against. “Deep breaths, come back to me now.” He is hoping that his words show all of the emotion he knows she cannot see on his face, still resting against her skin, the affection for her that drenches every bone of his body.

When he turns up to her, her eyes are still closed, but the smile that covers her face is unmistakable — and, dare he even say, relaxed? He can still feel her clenching around his fingers, her hips not fully stilled. 

If she’s honest with herself — even if right now is not the best time to be thinking about… anything, besides the way Killian’s fingers feel inside her, his lips against her, his mumbled words against her skin — she’s not even sure what she wanted when she woke him up anyway. All she knew was that she had only been able to think about him when she should be thinking about rescuing her son. She was  _ not  _ planning on kissing him, on doing anything else beyond telling him that she needs to focus on finding Henry. 

But then he told her that he was dreaming of her, had so eloquently told her that she was the “object of his dreams,” and she had lost control. No one had ever spoken to her like he did, had ever desired her, and when he had asked —  _ pleaded  _ — to let him take care of her, she had practically fallen to pieces in front of him. She was sure at first that it was a ruse, that he was going to go back on it as soon as she had reached her peak. But he had spoken again: “I would do anything for you,” more sincere than he had a right for; “... the only thing I desire is for you to allow me to watch as I cause you to fall apart,” but it was when he said her name, a whispered prayer followed by another plea: “Please, just grant me this,” that broke her. 

There was nothing else she could do. She had been with enough men since she was a naive teenager, had lied to enough of them herself to recognize a lie when it was told to her. But something told her, and not for the first time, that Killian Jones is not a man who does well being compared to others, and something in his voice assured her that he was telling the truth, as  _ unsettling _ that may seem. 

Her legs stop trembling beneath her, and she can take her weight off his arm slung under her legs, her feet fully back on the ground. 

“There's my girl,” he says, sliding his fingers out of her as she cups his cheek in her hand, smiling down at him. She can see how his fingers glisten in the moonlight, and he wipes them on her hip, one side and then the other, before swiping his tongue across the same skin, planting soft kisses as he goes. 

He looks up at her again, his bright blue eyes filled with more emotion than she would have thought the pirate capable of showing when they first met, and she can swear that she's never seen anything more incredible in her entire life than him, kneeling in front of her, both shirts still unbuttoned and showing off all the gloriousness of his chest, his smiling features lit by the bright moonlight as he presses his lips against her skin — the stripe-covered skin that she has grown to dislike since she first saw it. 

Without a word, he begins to help her get redressed, kissing her hand when he hands her her discarded shirt and bra, kissing up the skin of her thigh as he helps her pull back into her jeans. 

“Thank you,” she says finally, handing him the leather duster he allowed her to borrow to stop the tree from digging into her back. 

Almost immediately, his cheeks redden, made obvious by the bright white light of the moon, his hand rising to scratch behind his ear, all together a different demeanor than the confident, swaggering pirate she has grown so used to. “You, uh, don't have to thank me, love. That's not usually —” 

Suddenly, Emma realizes what Killian thought she meant, and her own cheeks begin to redden, do she covers her mouth with her hand. “No, no, I meant — I meant for letting me borrow the jacket,” she says, then begins laughing. “Damn it, Jones, did you really think  _ that  _ would be how I thank you for that?” 

“Just granting me the ability to do that is all the thanks I need, love,” he says, reaching out to push a lock of her hair out of her face. 

It's a simple gesture, paired with a statement that he's already made, and both of those together already make her want to  _ really  _ thank him in return — but it is the obvious bulge that his leather breeches do nothing to hide that brushes against her leg when he leans closer to her that really seal the idea in her mind. When she licks her lips, she watches his eyes follow the movement, and she realizes with a smile that she wants to kiss him again. 

“What's the matter?” he asks, and Emma decides that she either must not be as good at masking her expressions as she would like to believe, or Killian is just  _ really  _ good at reading her. Then she remembers what he told her on the beanstalk, that she is an “open book” to him. 

In place of an answer, she pulls his lips to hers, one hand resting on his shoulder and the other wrapped around his neck. He is surprised at first, even after all that has happened between them, but she hears the rumble deep in his throat when he presses into her again. She runs her hands down his chest, scratching her nails into the hair that she finds there, and he growls into her mouth again, a noise that goes right to her core, even with how absolutely sated she is. When her hands reach the laces of his leathers, he pulls back from her, his hook resting against her hip and his hand woven into her hair, and she can see the darkness that has grown over his eyes once again. 

“What are you doing?” 

None of this stops her from the task at hand, and once she has them loosened enough, she pulls them down low enough to release him from them, wrapping her hand around his straining erection. 

“Emma, darling, you don't have to —” 

“I know I don't have to, Killian,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against his jaw before pulling back to look at him. “But I  _ want  _ to.” 

He opens his mouth to argue, but she smiles, sliding her hand down the length of him before catching the bead of moisture at the end on the pad of her thumb, then leans in so her lips are almost touching his ear. 

“Or, I could go back to bed and leave you with your hand and a memory of me instead of just letting me return the favor.” 

He has no response to this, his eyes fluttering shut as she repeats her motion again, her hand squeezed a little tighter around him. 

“That's what I thought,” she whispers, her lips pressed against his neck.

Slowly — perhaps slower than necessary, but she can't help herself — she trails her lips down his collarbone, his chest, and follows the trail of dark hair down his stomach, falling to her knees in front of him. 

“Bloody hell, Swan,” he mumbles, his voice breathless, when she runs her tongue across his tip before taking him into her mouth, her tongue pressing him against the roof of her mouth before she hollows her cheeks around him. She pumps him a few times, her hand and her mouth working together, the velvet skin over his hardened length soft against her own, and then she is sliding her lips off of him, swirling her tongue around his tip before releasing him completely, her hand continuing it's repetitions. She runs her lips across his hip, turning his eyes up to him as she mimics the same motion he did just a few minutes earlier, and he smiles down at her, reaching his hand down to softly press the palm of his hand against her cheek. But when she moves her lips back towards the middle, taking as much of his length into her mouth as she can, his fingers tangle into her hair, not holding her in place, but as if he is using her as an anchor to the real world, the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. 

“Gods, Emma, you're —” he starts, but then her lips move across him again, filling her mouth to the brim as she feels him at the back of her throat, and his words turn into a rough groan, a sharp intake of breath, and a practically soundless “ _ Fuck _ .” 

She laughs around him, starting to gently bob her head against him, her mouth and her fist working together. It does not take long for him to begin bucking against her, and she didn't realize how much she enjoys hearing him speak when he is like this until the words finally start coming. 

“Swan, you bloody minx, you have no idea how amazing it feels to have your lips around my cock like this, taking my pleasure into your own hands,” he growls, and she hums a laugh against him once more, because she  _ does  _ know — he just did it for her. He growls again, but then continues. “Do you like letting me fuck your mouth? Your lips are like anything I've ever felt before, so soft and went and warm against my hard cock, bringing me closer and closer to spilling myself against your waiting, wanton tongue. Is that what you want?” 

She doesn't respond —  _ can't, really _ — but what she can do is speed up her movements, hollow her cheeks tighter against him, and when she does, he lets out a rough, gasping chuckle, and Emma can swear that it is the single greatest sound she has ever heard. 

When he speaks again, his words are softer, breathless gasps instead of dark growls, and his fingers tighten their grasp against her hair. “If you would like me to come somewhere other than your mouth, love, now would be a good time to do something about it.” 

But she shakes her head, using the rest of her focus to continue just as she is, trying to keep her breathing steady as he ruts his hips against her mouth. 

“ _ Fuck _ , Emma, here it comes,” he warns her, and after two more thrusts into her mouth, she feels the warm liquid on her tongue as he finds his release at the back of her throat, anchoring himself to her hair. 

After a few more moments, she pulls her lips away from him just enough to allow her to swallow, her hand slowing but not stopping completely. After she allows herself a few quick breaths, she darts her tongue out to catch what is left of the moisture around his tip before wrapping her mouth around him one last time, which pulls the most startling groan from his lips, followed by another soft chuckle. 

“C'mere, darling,” he whispers, gently pulling her back up to him, and when she turns her eyes up to face him, the expression that covers his features is nothing short of intense adoration. She tucks him back inside his leathers again, her eyes on his as she laces him back together again, but when she is finished, she leans against his chest, wrapping her hands around his neck, both his hand and hook settling on the small of her back. She can't help but notice that he looks thoroughly wrecked, his hair sticking up in all directions from where she had pulled on it, his bottom lip swollen from sucking on it when he wasn't speaking as she returned the favor he had granted her. There is something he wants to say, she can tell somehow — has learned to read him over the past few months, and even more so over the last few days — but whatever it is, he keeps it to himself, simply leaning down to gently capture her lips with his own. 

This kiss is chaste, tame compared to everything else they had done that night, but Emma can't help but think that, somehow, this means more than all of that put together. Even when she tilts her head and allows his tongue access to her mouth, his movements remain slow, savoring every moment of the time she is allowing him. When they do pull apart, it is no further than necessary to break the kiss, their eyes remaining closed with their foreheads pressed together, and when Emma's hand moves to cover his heart, his own hand joins hers, entwining his fingers with hers. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, at the exact moment he says, “We should get back to camp.” 

She nods in response to his, and when she opens her eyes, he is already looking at her, a gentle smile spread across his face, one that she can see in his eyes. 

“If you're going to begin thanking me for this, then I can only imagine how long it will take before you realize that I am only treating you the way you deserve to be treated.” 

His words travel straight to her heart, so unlike everything she's been led to believe — everything she's ever been  _ told  _ before — but his bright blue eyes are full of sincerity, which  _ almost  _ brings tears to the corners of her eyes. But she wills herself not to cry in the arms of the first man who has ever acknowledged her needs, who has ever spoken such sincerity to her face and  _ meant  _ it, and it seems to work. 

All she can do is kiss him again, hoping that it is enough to tell him everything she is unable to say out loud, everything she hopes he already knows. 

“We  _ should  _ go back to camp,” she agrees. “If anyone's woken up, they would notice we've been gone.” 

But when she does not move, Killian raises an eyebrow at her. “But?” he asks, reading in her face that this is not the end of her thought. 

She has so many things she wants to tell him, to assure him, but  _ how does she put them all into words?  _ Trying to pull her thoughts together, she slides her teeth over her bottom lip, worrying it as she wills the thoughts drowning her brain to put themselves in a coherent order. 

“But,” she tries, then shakes her head. “Neal —” she starts, watching his eyes go wide then narrow in the span of less than a second, and if he were not the one pressed up against the tree, she's sure that he would have taken a step away from her. 

“If that's what would make you happy, if you want a chance to be with him, to have —” he says quickly, and she's thankful their hands are still pressed against his chest, since she squeezes his in her own, stopping the words falling from his lips. 

“Killian, no,” she whispers, smiling softly at him. “That's  _ not  _ what I want. I thought I made that pretty clear over the past few days.” She leans up to kiss him, but he is too stunned to return it. “Neal had his chance, and he blew it. I don't care that he's Henry's father, and if Henry wants him in his life and Neal chooses to stay, then I won't stop it from happening. But I  _ don't  _ want to be with him.” 

His mouth hangs slightly open, his eyes searching hers, as if in disbelief. But his silence makes her question her own conclusion, a wave of fear beginning to wash over her. All this time, she's been worried about what  _ she  _ wants, who  _ she  _ wants to be with, and never once did she start to consider if it was what he wanted, as well. 

“Unless you don't want to —” she starts, trying to keep her voice from cracking, but he shakes his head, surging forward to kiss her again. 

“Of course I bloody want to,” he says, keeping his lips pressed against hers, and she can feel him smile against her. “For as long as you'll give me the chance, Emma, I will be yours.” 

This kiss is no longer gentle, now filled with words that  _ have  _ been spoken, and they are so wrapped up in each other that they don't hear movement in the camp site until a twig snaps not far from them, revealing Mary Margaret in the moonlight before there is anything they can do to hide, to move from their embrace. 

“Emma?” she asks, and Emma feels her face redden immediately, as if she's a high schooler whose mother just walked in on her and her boyfriend. 

(She shoos away all the parallels to  _ that  _ from her mind immediately.) 

Before Emma can do anything in response, Mary Margaret adds, “Hook,” a soft smile growing across her face. 

(Emma does not even  _ begin  _ to think about what that means.)

“M'lady,” Hook returns, bowing with his head and his hook, a smile growing to match her own. “Miss Swan and I were just conversing on this lovely evening.” Under her hand, though, Emma can feel his heart begin to beat wildly — and also remind her that they never managed to re-fasten the buttons of his shirt. 

“Of course,” Mary Margaret agrees. “We have a big day tomorrow, though, so you should probably go back to sleep to get some rest.” 

“Good plan,” Killian replies, much cooler in the heat of the moment than Emma could ever hope to be. “I think we've, uh, finished our conversation anyway, right, love?” He turns his eyes back to Emma, still too flustered to respond, but she does roll her eyes at him. “Farewell, m'lady,” he says to Snow, then ushers Emma back towards the clearing, his hand on the small of her back as if it belongs there. 

Emma falls asleep much closer to him than she means to, and in a record time, but if anyone woke and noticed them asleep, Emma's head on his chest, they kept it to themselves. 


End file.
